Of Saints and Moonlight
by jenron12
Summary: Cal Lightman is no saint... but then again, neither is Gillian. Strong T. One-shot.


**A/N**: This one-shot is rated as a strong T. It skirts the line towards M, but I don't think it crosses over. And fair warning, guys - it's fluffy. Really, really fluffy.

The idea for this one hit me completely out of the blue, and my muse wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it down. Rest assured, though, I am still writing updates for "Take the Long Way Home." This little Callian-centric side trip didn't throw me off schedule too badly, and... well... I really hope you like it. :) As always, thanks for reading / reviewing, and thanks for helping to keep this fandom alive. Enjoy!

* * *

Cal Lightman is no saint. He's far from it, in fact – and there likely isn't anyone who better understands the truth behind that statement _better_ than she does. Both his reputation and his history have always told her what words could not, and besides… he's never been particularly shy when it comes to this sort of thing. Passivity doesn't suit him. It's a foreign concept to which he can't relate – especially now.

_Here_.

In _this_ setting, and with _these_ stakes, when the time for contemplation has long ago passed them by.

And so it's not his actions (plural) which have taken her by surprise… but rather, the finesse with which he completes them.

Actually? Wait. Scratch that. She needs a moment to regroup.

They've been kissing for quite a while, and she's enjoying it very much, and the moment his lips shift _south_ to explore the sensitive expanse of her throat, she decides that _'finesse'_ is definitely the wrong word to choose. Mostly because _it_ (his skill) doesn't surprise her, either. Let's face it: she's always known that _when_ (not if) they came together, things would be good. That _he_ would be good. At this. _With her_.

So on second thought… maybe _none_ of it is all that surprising, save for the fact they haven't reached this point before now. Tension can only build for so long – attraction can only _burn_ for so long – before the dam simply breaks, flooding everything in its wake with urgency, desire, and _need_.

She throws her head back in blatant encouragement and fights to catch her breath, as the _ache_ that continues to build within her grows warmer with each sweep of his tongue. And _clearly_, he's rehearsed all of this a few (hundred) times before. In his _head_. Where words like "unnecessary risk" don't impede his desire… and where the only lines that matter to either one of them are those that mark the planes of his body falling into perfect alignment with hers.

She's done the same, of course. She's fantasized. She's dreamed. She's tried to imagine the soft, soothing caress of his mouth against her heated skin, and the feeling of his fingertips exploring beneath the hemline of her skirt. And now that she finally experiencing those things, it's…

_Bliss_.

She's vaguely aware of her own voice in the background. It sounds throaty and strained as his name falls from her lips and gets tangled in the heat of their kiss. And she's _definitely_ aware of the urge that swells within her, telling her to exert just a tad bit of control while they are both still vertical and clothed; to gain the upper hand for a few moments, at least, just so she can watch him react to the sight of her desire matching his, beat for beat. But patience isn't a virtue she currently possesses, and she can't quite bring herself to make him stop – or to even slow down, really – so she files the urge away for future use. Perhaps patience will find her later.

But _now_?

Like _this_?

When they're both already so far gone that even the simple act of _breathing_ takes effort?

It just doesn't seem relevant.

His name tumbles out of her mouth for a second time – and the instant it does, his hands react possessively. He squeezes his left one against her hip, while the right slides up to tangle in her hair and he pulls it, just a bit. It's a tiny tug – not painful at all – but his barely-controlled excitement is making her whimper beneath his touch. And when his grip on her body tightens, well… the fragmented idea of what she'd planned to do to him (that upper hand she'd wanted to find) simply evaporates.

_Poof_.

It's _gone_, you know? It's a mere memory, and it's probably a moot point anyway, because she thinks it would be easier to stop a freight train than convince him to slow down now.

The next spoken word is his – and although she can't tell _exactly_ what he said (…because her senses are much more interested in what his hands are currently doing…), it sounds like the word 'love.' Whether he meant to use it as a term of endearment or something entirely different, though, she doesn't know. Perhaps it's both? And she thinks maybe – just maybe – she should probably pause long enough to _think_ and to _inhale_, and to answer her own question. But _her hands_ are quite busy, too, and they are completely focused on ridding him of his clothing, rather than partaking in conventional conversation.

'Conventional' has never suited them very well, anyway.

His shirt hits the floor and her blouse quickly follows suit, and then they both pause _just_ long enough to don identical, dopey grins that are heavy with arousal. Nothing about their interaction is subtle, and that is perfectly fine with her. She doesn't _want_ subtle. She wants to _feel_ everything – from start to finish, and then back again – and she's not in the mood to be coy.

Come to think of it… she isn't much of a saint, either.

He steers her towards the bedroom – her own, not his – and they are still grinning when they both speak again, simultaneously. She opts for "_Cal_," (creativity isn't her strong suit at the moment) and he manages to say "_so beautiful_," as her skin warms beneath his palms. She's following his lead quite willingly – both in the literal and figurative sense – but when his lips drop down to connect with bare skin, she halts. Right there in her hallway. She just… _freezes_. Mostly because his tongue has taken a renewed interest in exploring her throat, and the fingertips of his right hand are dancing across the slope of her still-concealed breast, and her mind is _far_ too distracted by sensation to tell her body how to move. Walking feels like work, and since she has plush carpet anyway, where's the harm?

"Not here, Gill," he implores her, and his intentions are crystal clear. He means '_not here_,' as in…

_Oh_.

He nips the skin at the base of her throat and his hands squeeze her hips yet again, as gooseflesh blooms from the points of contact all the way down to her toes. And just as she begins to debate the benefit of arguing with him (like making some half-assed attempt to rationalize the benefits of rug burn) – he nips again, thereby keeping her better judgment in check

"We've waited for this night far too long to spend it making love on the floor," he breathes, and… _well_… he's right. Of course he is. That isn't the way she's ever seen it in her fantasies, either.

When she finally remembers how to move again, her hands fly to his belt and she toes her heels off in the darkness – and as she sinks barefooted onto the carpet, the slight height difference that exists between them during daylight hours becomes much more pronounced. Her left shoe ricochets off the bathroom door, the right one thuds noisily into the wall, and she has a passing thought that she should probably take the time to kick them completely out of the way, lest someone stumble over them in the morning.

But then she has two _additional_ thoughts, and they're nowhere near as passing: _first_, that the sound of Cal's belt being pulled through the loops is much more erotic than she'd ever anticipated, and _second_, that the phrase 'in the morning' conjures up an image that very clearly includes him. _In her bed_. She already knows he's going to stay. Certainly, no man who refers to it as "making love" has any intention of running out the door, and for all the emotions she can read on his face, 'doubt' is most certainly not one of them.

By the time they reach the bedroom, everything starts to feel like a dance. It's graceful, somehow. Their movements have harmonized; they've found a natural rhythm, born from familiarity, trust, and love. She isn't nervous at all – and while she quite easily understands _why_ they have waited so long to be together, none of those reasons feel important anymore.

"Gillian," he breathes against her skin, as they stumble through the doorway and kiss again in the moonlight. And though it probably sounds crazy – though she'd never admit it aloud – the word seems to _sound_ different, now. It's just her name and maybe her inner romantic is working overtime, but… it carries a different weight, somehow. It _means_ more. Cal's voice is raw and honest, and she pulls back just enough to cradle his face in her palms, so that the dark pools of his eyes lock directly onto hers.

"I'm right here," she whispers. Hoarsely. Where that particular statement has come from, she has no idea – it simply pops into her head and out of her mouth in an instant, and when it does… he grins. Impishly. In a way that lights her up from the inside out, and fans the flames of desire. She's always loved his smile.

In her mind – in her _fantasies_ – this moment always includes more heat than humor. But when Cal introduces the later, she isn't entirely surprised because it _is_, after all… _him_. He doesn't seem nervous and neither is she, but the tension has climbed even higher, now, and when her forehead touches his, a contented sigh escapes his throat as he says – cheekily –

"Good to know I'm not dreaming, then." And he grins _again_, fingers pressing into her skin in delicious ways as he adds… "But please feel free to pinch me anyway, as often as you'd like."

She laughs, then – loudly – because that quip is quite possibly the _last_ thing she expected him to say. Her shoulders are shaking, and her breath catches on each attempted exhale, and by the time she realizes that giggling might _not_ be the reaction he'd been looking for, he's laughing too. Just as loudly as she is. They make quite a pair.

He finds his footing quickly, kissing along her shoulder… then her ear… as his palms skate down over the curve of her spine, in search of her zipper once again. And once his fingers find it, all lingering traces of laughter disappear. The man is a master at shifting the mood from heat to humor and back again, and his latest turn leaves her breathless for an entirely different reason.

"Cal, I…" she tries.

She _tries_, but the right words fall seem to have fallen out of her reach.

The sentences she _wants_ to use are lingering in her periphery (she's rehearsed this part, too), but it would be very cliché to tell him now, and maybe she should wait. Maybe she shouldn't break the spell. Let everything play out naturally, in its own time.

But then again… maybe not.

She's tangled in the indecision of when (not _if_) she should make her confession, when she catches sight of his bare chest in the moonlight, and the contrast of black ink against his fair skin. And just like that, she switches gears, too. She decides that 'breaking the spell' would only be possible if they were _under_ one in the first place. But they aren't. Of that much, she's positive. Because nothing – _nothing_ – about what is currently unfolding between them feels temporary.

Decision made, she sweeps her palms up and down his arms greedily, as she stands up on tiptoes (she's barefooted, but he is not) to kiss him again. _Twice_. She doesn't break for air again until the butterflies in her stomach start to flap their wings in tandem and threaten to carry her away. And of course she can do this, right? Of course she can tell him. Three words… one truth… she wants him to know how she feels.

"Cal, I…"

And for a _second_ time, that's all the farther she gets. Mostly because his reflexes are faster than hers, and (apparently) two kisses wasn't enough. So he silences her with a third, waggles his brows when it ends, and then mumbles a gravely… "Hold that thought, darling."

Right on cue, her inner vixen conjures up a quip about what she'd really like to be holding (…hint? They haven't uncovered it yet…), but she's too busy watching him walk towards her dresser to worry about speaking it aloud. She's curious as to what he's doing – as to what he could possibly need from the other side of the room – and rather than bother with idle chatter, she's simply takes a moment to appreciate the non-baggy areas in his jeans.

(There are two.)

He fumbles with his watch and makes a passing comment about not wanting to accidentally scratch her skin, but she's too busy staring at his (still clad) backside to respond. She doesn't speak… doesn't mumble… doesn't make any sound at all, and yes, she is quite sure he's doing this on purpose. Removing the stupid thing even slower than is probably necessary, just to torment her.

Damn him, anyway.

By the time he finally gets it unfastened, he turns toward her with a gleam in his eye – one that confirms her suspicions (oh, he is _such_ a tease), and forces her to realize (belatedly) that she's been silent for at least two minutes too long. She's been thinking about crazy things – like whether or not he might have tattoos hidden somewhere _south_ of his belt loops, or just how serious he might be about that whole pinching scenario – and he has no trouble seeing just how… _imaginative_… her mind's eye can be, when properly motivated.

_Uh-oh._

He's staring at her with that trademark impish grin again, and the sight of it on him _now_ – as he's half-dressed and illuminated by starlight – makes her swallow involuntarily. Her throat has gone dry, and she can _feel_ her features darken with arousal as he steps right up into her personal space and pulls her back into his embrace.

"I _know_," he says sincerely, shifting the mood from playful to tender with that short, heartfelt admission. And his voice is _so_ low that she likely wouldn't have heard him at all, save for the fact that he mumbles the words right against her lips as his mouth covers hers again. Despite the tension she can feel in his muscles and the desire she can read on his face, he seems quite content just to _be_ in the moment – to _savor_ the details – rather than rush to take the next step. After all, time is their ally now. Not their enemy.

She's not sure how many moments pass before they move again, but when they do, she is the one who takes the lead. And yes, it strikes her that such a detail is important. The proverbial ball is in her court – not his. She turns them, so that _he's_ the one walking backwards toward the bed… so that _he's_ the one accepting direction, rather than giving it… and it feels empowering to know that every ounce of anticipation she sees on his face is all because of her.

For all the times she's imagined it – imagined _them_, like _this_ – she's never been able to picture things unfolding so naturally. There is no rush… no pressure… no outside influences, and no cosmic 'nudge' to convince them that they've already waited long enough. Like Matheson's gun, for example. Or being trapped in a war zone. Or being stalked by a sadistic, copycat rapist. Or being water boarded and then forced to _dig a grave_. Things like _those_, you know? Things that most people are fortunate enough to never encounter, but have inexplicably made frequent visits to their respective front doors.

Simply put, she doesn't need (or want) another reminder as to how close they came to not reaching this point – she already knows that truth, all too well. And while adrenaline (with a dash of danger) _has_ often been a factor in her more colorful fantasies… just for the record? She decides that it feels even sweeter like this.

The room is entirely silent, save for the occasional whimper (_her_) or groan (_him_), or the erotic tones of their mingled and labored breathing. And she still wants to tell him – three simple words can't possibly be that hard – but as decisive as she is about the _physical_ aspect of what they are doing… the emotional aspect is still giving her butterflies. Swarms of them. They aren't a product of doubt, though. She doubts nothing of how much she loves him. But rather, she thinks they're meant to remind her that the line they are about to cross _should_ include clarity, rather than assumptions.

Or in other words…

Surely, Cal already knows that she loves him. Any verbal admission she makes now probably won't take him by surprise, because she's already given him (voluntarily and otherwise) plenty of chances to read it on her face; to _feel_ it in her actions. But she wants what is about to unfold between them to be _exactly_ what he said – making love. So it isn't enough just to _assume_ that he knows how she feels. She wants to tell him, straight out. She wants him to _hear_ it.

And as for those butterflies?

Well, someone has to go first, right? Someone has to be brave enough to break that portion of the ice. Why _shouldn't_ it be her? After all… he's the one who got the _physical_ ball rolling (she very clearly remembers that _**he**_ kissed _**her**_ – not the other way around), so it only seems fair that she tip the emotional one.

They are both half-dressed and desperate, still stumbling blindly towards the bed as they kiss. And although she is still the one controlling the pace of their movements, it takes _effort_ to do so. To restrain herself. Because he is a _very_ good kisser, and he isn't the _least_ bit shy in exploring her body, and she wants to explore his, too.

In detail.

Without the hindrance of clothing.

She no sooner feels the bump of the mattress as it collides with her legs, when Cal's hands slide north to find the clasp of her bra – he's read her mind, apparently. And so she whimpers yet again (the sound is louder now), as hers slide south toward the fly of his jeans. She's practically forgotten all about her inner monologue – about being the brave one who nudges that 'emotional ball' down its path – _until_…

He tears his mouth away from hers and pulls back slightly, so that he can _watch_ her reaction to what he's about to do. And as his fingers lock upon their target – just a few stubborn hooks and a thin layer of fabric are all that separate his bare chest from hers – his lips twitch with a barely hidden smile. He's _happy_, and she can see that above all else.

Cliché though she knows it sounds, that smile _melts_ her. It flips the internal 'switch' in her head, so that she stops _thinking_ about bravery, and starts using it instead.

_Finally_.

She's vaguely aware of making a rather girly sounding noise (damn those butterflies), as her breath _wooshes_ out of her body and she sinks into his touch with a smile of her own. And while he likely has no idea about the specific routes her thoughts have been taking, he does seem to know that something is… _up._ His eyebrows quirk in silent question, and he pauses his attack on her bra just long enough to whisper her name.

"Gill…?"

And yes, that's _all_ he says – just one single syllable.

But it's the only thing she needs to hear.

"I love you," she tells him – and then she blushes, as that same girly, butterfly-driven noise tumbles out of her mouth once again. She can't seem to help herself, because everything feels so… _new_. She's happy too. Her heart is pounding against her ribcage, and her limbs can't seem to hold still, and it's as if a thousand pound weight has been lifted from her shoulders. It's _relief_, in every sense of the word.

And as for Cal?

His reaction is priceless.

Eyebrows that were previously quirked in question have apparently forgotten how to move at _all_, and she isn't even sure he is _breathing_ until the air wooshes out of him, too. It's like an echo, of sorts – one which reminds her that for all the fantasizing she's done, she's never been able to _'see'_ this part very clearly.

Which is kind of funny, right?

She is no saint – make no mistake about that. She's not as innocent as he prefers to assume, and although she's not particularly proud to admit it, the answer is _yes_: she _has_ had sex with men she didn't truly love. And she damn well _knows_ that Cal has bedded women he barely even _knew_, let alone cared about deeply enough to form a relationship. But this is different. It _matters_. _**He**_ matters – on every level – much, much more than all the ones who came before.

And with Cal, she wants him to know that the love comes first. That the physical relationship they're about to begin is secondary to the joining that has already taken place, with in her heart. She's loved him for _years_. So it _is_ kind of funny to think that her fantasies of actually _telling_ him that – and of hearing it in return – are far surpassed by… _other_… types of fantasies.

Back to his reaction, though: it's priceless.

In addition to the non-functioning eyebrows and poorly-cooperating lungs, his hands are affected as well. They've momentarily forgotten all about her bra, and she feels one drop down to the small of her back while the other twines around the nape of her neck – and then they simply hold onto her, like anchors, while he tries to get the rest of his body back under control. He's not surprised, exactly (she was right about that part) but he _does_ look like he's caught between two different urges: the first being a reply of his own, and the second being something much more… naughty.

_Of course._

His eyes are darker than she's ever seen them, and he's making noises of his own – like a mild growl, mixed with a whimper. She rather _loves_ it. He hasn't managed to actually close his jaw as of yet, and she smiles warmly as she raises her fingertips to his face. And she starts to tell him again – because she wants to, and because he deserves to hear it – but she gets no farther than the first half of his _name_, when the hand that had been on her neck shifts position. Quickly.

It's just like she said before: his reflexes are faster than hers.

She barely has time to blink before he captures her wrist in one hand and then uses the other to pull her hips flush with his. And the anticipation of his next move is just about to kill her, because clearly – _clearly_ – he's finally managed to decide which of those aforementioned urges to follow. Trust her, though, she has no clue which one he's actually going to pick, until she notices that his eyebrows are beginning to climb down from his hairline… that his lungs are starting to cooperate… and that the hand upon her hip is trembling, ever-so slightly.

It's his _smile_, though, that sets things in motion again. Because as soon as she sees it – as soon as his facial muscles are fully functional, and the joy of the moment fans out across his features – she's just… _gone_. He hasn't said a single (verbal) thing in reply, and yet she already _knows_ that he will. That he's _going_ to. And it all feels so damn sweet that she thinks she might cry.

She's so caught up in what he's about to say that she loses track of his hands – specifically, that one of them is still holding her wrist. But then his fingers start to flex, and he raises her palm up to his lips to kiss it once, _so gently_, and she feels chills race along the length of her spine. The gesture is romance and eroticism all rolled into one, and if he can manage to elicit that kind of response without even trying, _well_… it certainly bodes well for the rest of the night.

He guides her hand from his lips to his chest, then presses her palm against his warm skin, directly over his heart. And she can feel it, beating strong and steady beneath her touch. _Thud, thud, thud_, it goes, as she reverts back to making girly, nonsensical giggles, while trying – mightily – to remember to breathe.

"You've _always_ been here, darling," he starts. "In my _heart_."

And _oh_, she can hear the emotion in his voice… she can see the relief that has already started to bloom behind his eyes… and she just knows – before he even speaks another word – that he's about to take her breath away.

A small hint?

He _does_.

"I used to think that it mattered what I said, or how I said it," he continues. "That the _words_ were the most important thing, yeah? That they needed to be these big, powerful, poetic examples of what love is supposed to be. But standing here? Right now, with you? _Now_, I realize just how powerful 'I love you' can be. So. This is me, darling. Offering my heart. Telling you – with my words – that I _do_ love you. I _love_ you, Gill. So damned much. Yesterday… today… always."

She isn't quite sure which one of them is the first to move; which one of them is the first to blink, or breathe, or even _think_, beyond the physical. And trust her, _that_? The _physical_? It happens immediately. Their kiss is so intense – so overwhelmingly heated and perfect in its honesty, that she is shaking by the time it ends. Literally. Her hands are trembling, and she is blinking back tears, and she cannot seem to get as close to him as she wants to be. It's all so much more than she expected, you know? It's deeper.

He pulls back far enough to study her face, and he catches one runaway tear with the pad of his thumb as he whispers that word again. Love. She's quite positive that she'll never get enough of it. And his face is alight with wonder. It's perfectly open… perfectly handsome… and he looks as though he's just now seeing her for the first time. Everything is _new_, you know?

It's a new beginning.

_Finally_.

God knows they've waited long enough.

* * *

END


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